


Into Matter

by Isagel



Series: Descent universe [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Dominance/submission, Established Relationship, Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s always hard, keeping it together when Rodney has set a time and place, when he knows in advance the moment when he’ll be allowed to give up control. As if he’s slipping through his own fingers, spilling through the cracks, and it’s all he can do not to let his grip falter before Rodney is there to take over, there to hold the pieces together with his ropes and his hands and all that confident will, keeping John whole as he falls apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into Matter

**Author's Note:**

> The second of (so far) two stories that stand well on their own but take place in the same universe/describe the same John/Rodney kink relationship.

"No, but seriously," Rodney says. "It would be interesting if you told me things, occasionally. Not that I can't read you quite well enough without verbal cues, obviously…"

 _"Obviously,"_ John mimics, but lying as he is, boneless and sated, head pillowed on Rodney's arm, hand splayed on Rodney's chest, Rodney's thumb stroking lazy patterns across the fresh rope marks on his wrist in a way that makes him want to purr like a kitten, he doesn't quite reach the intended level of sarcasm. Rodney ignores him completely.

"…but I'm pretty sure there are things you'd like that I'm never going to consider doing unless you name them. Not that I wouldn't _want_ to do them, of course - you know most of my limits aren't so much soft as they are porous - but there's such a vast spectrum of things I could do to you, it's hard to know what to do _first_. Christ, John, the number of possibilities that rush through my head every time you get down on your knees… If you could overcome your inability to articulate any preference more personal than your favorite color jello, I could make this even better for you. More data can only improve the process."

He doesn't know what makes him say it. Why he says anything at all, why this thing in particular out of all the ones he's thought about. Except that he's strung out on pleasure, still riding the perfect high of being made to give up control, and he can't seem to wrench his eyes away from where Rodney's fingers are wrapped around his forearm.

"Your hand," he says, keeping his chin down, not looking Rodney in the face. "Maybe if, you know... Your fist... Inside me."

Rodney's thumb stills on his wrist.

"Greedy," he says. His voice sounds amused, affectionate. Not at all surprised. "Think you can take it?"

John opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get the words out, Rodney's fingers press against his lips.

"No, don't answer that. Stupid question. Of course you can take it. You're John Sheppard, and you can take anything anyone is idiot enough to dish out, and all they'll ever get out of you is one of those ridiculous eyebrow quirks. This isn't some endurance test for you to get all macho flyboy over. Can you take it and enjoy it? Can you take it and mean it when you beg me not to stop?" His fingers leave John's lips, sliding up the line of his jaw. "You may answer that one."

"Yeah," John says. His mouth is dry and his heart is pounding, and his newly fucked body suddenly feels empty all over again, wanting. "I think… Yeah."

"Fuck," Rodney says, and his voice cracks just a little on the word. "Okay. Okay, yes. I can work with that. I can definitely work with that."

John can practically hear his mind race forward, applying the new data to whatever blueprints to John's submission he keeps in his head, making adjustments. It should be terrifying, and it is, but it's also as oddly reassuring as the feel of Rodney's hand in his hair, stroking him down towards sleep. He tries not to worry and lets it take him there.

* * *

The thing about Rodney's hands (apart from the fact that they're Rodney's hands and have saved his life about as many times as they've made him come, a ratio John is applying himself hard to changing) is that he can't seem to avoid them.

Rodney does everything with his hands.

Rodney explains with his hands, argues with his hands, thinks with his hands. Rodney gives Thompson in Geology a whole separate dressing down with his hands on top of the verbal one that half the city can hear. And that's just before lunch.

At lunch, he crams a slice of bread into his mouth and licks a smear of butter from the pad of his thumb. John really doesn’t stare.

Rodney's hands fix things, explore things, take things apart. On M6Y-598, when his P-90 jams under fire, they strip and reassemble it, quick and sure with the Wraith closing in. Afterwards, when John shoves him up against the wall in a dark corner of the jumper bay and drops to his knees, they hold his head still while Rodney's cock jerks in his mouth.

Rodney's hands know things, understand things, make things do what they want, with the twist of a wire or the flick of a switch. They know John, and the idea of taking them deeper, letting them in past the boundaries of his body, makes his chest contract every time they catch his eye.

Sitting in senior staff, five days after the fact, watching Rodney give a report on the findings from the Ancient optics lab they’ve run across on M3J-073, complete with graphs and formulas and eager gestures to underline his points, John devoutly wishes he could erase and rewind. If he’d known that telling Rodney about his fantasies would reduce him to this, he would damn well have stayed true to form and avoided any kind of personal confessions. But he had to go and say something, say _that_ , and now he can’t seem to take seeing Rodney tap an equation on the screen with his index finger in answer to a question from Sam without fighting down an erection, without fighting back an urge to run and hide.

It’s the kind of presentation that Carter and Zelenka are the only people in the room qualified to really understand, and as far as he can tell, the research has no immediate military applications. Lorne zones out somewhere around the first mention of spontaneous parametric down-conversion. John zones out when Rodney snaps his fingers at Radek and holds his hand out for a data pad with calculations. His entire body shivers with the sudden awareness of what he’s asked Rodney to do with that hand.

It’s not that it scares him, not really. Except that there’s no denying the shape and size of Rodney’s hand, no pretending that those broad, long fingers, that wide solid palm can fit inside him with anything resembling ease. He’s never taken anything that large, that powerful, and he knows that it will split him open in ways he hasn’t even begun to imagine. What scares him is how desperately he wants it.

“See here?” Rodney says, passing the pad to Carter. “I would say this is the promising part, especially when you consider those light-matter conversion experiments that Danish-woman --” he snaps his fingers again, the rapid-fire series of clicks he uses to jog his own memory, and John has to shift in his seat, “-- what’s-her-name, has going at Harvard. We should have some people look into this properly.”

He sits back in his chair, giving Sam a moment to skim through the data, and types something on his computer. On the screen of John’s laptop, an IM window pops open.

 _“You can’t think about anything else, can you?”_

John glances quickly around, making sure that Lorne next to him can’t see the writing, but the major seems absorbed in drawing the skyline of Atlantis in the margin of his notepad. When John looks back at his screen, the message goes on:

 _“Maybe I should put you out of your misery. Spread you out and let you beg me for it. You want to beg me for it, don’t you, John? Of course you do. You’re so hard just from thinking about my fist up your ass, you’d bend over right here and now if I told you to.”_

It’s the first time Rodney has spelled it out, the first time since John brought it up that he’s even hinted at it, and John has to force himself to breathe before he dares put fingers to keyboard. If he put down the single word _please_ , it wouldn’t be a lie. He bites his lip and types.

 _“Would that mean I wouldn’t have to hear any more about the Ancient’s take on wave-particle duality? Cause in that case…”_

“Colonel Sheppard,” Carter says, and if he doesn’t jump in his seat, it’s only because you don’t get to be an Air Force pilot with shitty reflex control. “What’s your assessment of M3J-073? Would you support sending a science team to go through the research facility more thoroughly?”

John looks across his laptop screen at her, trying to make his brain catch up to what she’s asking. In the lower edge of his field of vision, Rodney’s reply appears in his IM window.

 _“Ha-ha. I can’t believe what a funny boy you are. My room tonight, 2100. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you beg.”_

And maybe he is afraid of doing this, of wanting this, but what scares him most is knowing that Rodney will always give him what he wants, no matter how much it scares him.

“The locals seem friendly enough,“ he tells Sam, and somehow his voice comes out steady. “I don’t see any reason for concern.”

Right now, he’s more concerned about holding himself together until 2100.

It doesn’t help when Rodney snaps his laptop shut and beats an impatient rhythm on its lid with his fingers.

* * *

It’s always hard, keeping it together when Rodney has set a time and place, when he knows in advance the moment when he’ll be allowed to give up control. As if he’s slipping through his own fingers, spilling through the cracks, and it’s all he can do not to let his grip falter before Rodney is there to take over, there to hold the pieces together with his ropes and his hands and all that confident will, keeping John whole as he falls apart. After a day of waiting, it’s a relief just to step into Rodney’s quarters.

The room is empty, but he knows by now that this makes no difference; he is here on Rodney’s time. If Rodney were here with him, he would tell him what to do, but John has standing orders for the occasions when Rodney chooses to make him wait. He once spent an hour and a half in this room by himself, naked and kneeling on the floor by the bed, listening for Rodney’s footsteps in the corridor. He would gladly do it again.

He strips his clothes off, one item at a time, folding them and putting them aside in a pile on Rodney’s desk chair. He is down to his underwear when he hears the sharp double whoosh of the door behind him, opening and closing.

“Don’t turn around,” Rodney says. “Finish what you’re doing and don’t turn around.”

John pulls his boxers down and steps out of them, drops them on the chair. It feels as though it takes hours for Rodney to cross the few feet of floor to where he’s standing. It’s hard to breathe, hard not to move.

Rodney stops right behind him, close enough that John is aware of the heat of his body through the inches of air that separate them. Instinctively, he shifts his weight back on his heels, swaying closer.

“Hands,” Rodney says. It’s the same tone of voice that so often comes with a few commanding snaps of his fingers, and John’s cock swells as he obeys, putting his hands behind his back, offering them up to Rodney.

Rodney’s fingers close around his bare wrists.

The breath John releases sounds shaky even to his own ears.

“So you’re freaked by this,” Rodney says. He isn’t moving, simply standing there, holding John’s wrists in a firm grip, and now his tone is conversational. John can feel his breath against the base of his neck when he speaks, his knuckles against the small of his back. “You’re really, spectacularly freaked by this. These past few days, the way you’ve been acting… I mean, yes, okay, in any half-way _normal_ person, your behavior would qualify for maybe a nine on the Glasgow coma scale, but for you, this is a freak-out of vast proportions. This is John Sheppard freaking out. But you’re still here.”

He doesn’t know what to say. All he knows is the speeding throb of his heartbeat, wild and erratic against the steady pressure of Rodney’s fingers over his pulse points.

He manages a nod. Yes, he’s freaked out of his mind. Yes, of course he’s here. How could he not be here?

“Tell me your safe word, John,” Rodney says. He always asks, but rarely this soon, hardly ever while John can still just physically walk away.

“Queen,” John says, as he always does, remembering the freefall of emotions that made him choose it, that first time, all the things he was trying to say.

“Do you want to use it? It’s all right if you want to use it. We can still have sex, I can still, you know. But if you don’t use it, I will give you what you asked for, what you want, and I’ll make sure you accept it. Are you ready for that, or do you want to use your safe word?”

His pulse is beating so fast, so hard, as if his blood could hammer its way out of his body through the skin. But Rodney is here now, Rodney has hold of him. Nothing is going to escape.

“No,” he says. “No safe word.”

“Good.” Rodney’s hands tighten for a second around John’s wrists before letting go. “Get on the bed.”

John does as he’s told.

“Face up,” Rodney continues, “center of the mattress,” but he isn’t watching. He’s turned away to open the locked cabinet where he keeps the selection of items he uses on John when they’re doing this, and for a moment, as he positions himself according to Rodney’s instructions, John can watch him. The broad line of his shoulders, the swell of his biceps beneath the tight-fitting sleeves of his black t-shirt. When he turns back around, a coil of rope in his hand, there is no mistaking the bulge that is forming at the front of his black BDUs. Not fully hard yet, but getting there. John wets his lips, avoids the knowing look in Rodney’s eyes, the smug amusement. His own cock is straining in an eager arc towards his belly.

Rodney steps across to him, settles on the edge of the bed just above where John is lying.

“Hands,” he says again, patting the mattress between John and the headboard, another impatient, imperious command. “Come on.”

John stretches his arms above his head.

It’s, fuck, almost humiliating, but in the brief minutes that have passed since Rodney’s hands let go of his wrists, he’s had time to _miss_ them, and the return of their grip is a relief so sharp it makes his breath catch. Rodney brushes his thumbs across the spots where John’s skin is thinnest, the insides of his wrists where touch is so vivid it’s close to unbearable, does it again with just the hint of scraping nails. Exact, precise caresses, each a perfect mirror image of the other. John bites his lip, but it does nothing to hold his moans in, nothing to hide his reactions.

Rodney makes a pleased, appreciative sound in the back of his throat and applies a little more pressure with his nails. John almost arcs off the bed.

It’s for him, of course, this attention Rodney pays to his wrists, playing on the ridiculous surges of pleasure it gives him, reminding him that the comfort of restraints isn’t far away. But more than that, sometimes he thinks it’s for Rodney himself. This meticulous focus on touching him where his skin is always covered, where no one else will ever touch him unless he wants them to. He’s had sex, before, without ever removing his wristband, but like this, with Rodney, he always does. In the morning, when he puts it back on, tight around his arm, it’s as if he wraps the feel of Rodney’s touch inside, sealing it there, safe with the hidden rope marks. He’s caught Rodney watching, the possessiveness in his eyes as naked and obvious as every other emotion on his face. He touches John there because he can, because no one else can.

It’s possible that knowing this makes John pant harder in his grip.

And then, instead of Rodney’s hands, there is the rope.

There are leather cuffs in Rodney’s locked cabinet, bought on Earth, but John prefers this: the cuffs Rodney creates himself, winding the rope he brought home from M7G-677 around and between John’s wrists with easy skill, tying them together, securing them to the headboard.

“Okay?” Rodney asks when he’s done, and John flexes his arms, makes the bonds tug into him. Tests the tightness of the rope as he knows Rodney wants him to.

There are no words for how okay it is.

“It’s fine,” he says, and his voice sounds almost normal, although moisture is falling in heavy drops from his cock onto his stomach.

“Yes, yes, and laconic is your middle name,” Rodney says, sliding his hand along John’s arm, down over shoulder and chest to rub his palm in firm circles over a nipple. “Very terse and manly and warrior-like and all those things you have your little tin-soldier heart set on being. I’m sure this is fine, too.”

His thumb and forefinger close on John’s nipple, twisting it.

It isn’t fine in the least. It’s sharp and vicious and teetering on the edge of pain, and it feels so good he can barely stand it, a keening moan torn from his throat as he shoves himself up into it, rope pulling at his wrists. When Rodney lets go, it’s as if someone had killed an electric current, his body slumping boneless into the mattress.

“Fuck you,” he grinds out between heaving breaths, and Rodney chuckles, soothing his nipple with infuriatingly gentle fingers.

“Not tonight,” he says, patting John’s chest as he gets up from the bed, the kind of off-hand, affectionate pat you might give a favorite dog who’s barking to get your attention. “Knees bent and legs spread,” he orders. John obeys as eagerly as if he’d been told to heel or fetch or play dead.

Again Rodney isn’t looking, busy fishing lube and a small cardboard box John doesn’t recognize out of the bedside drawer. Confident, damn him, that John will scramble to do as he’s told whether he’s watched or not. It’s different, though, when Rodney turns back to him, when Rodney stops and _sees_.

Standing there, eyes wide and so blue, Technicolor bright like the ocean from orbit.

“Seriously,” he says, and there’s no arrogance or command in his voice, just tenderness and hunger. “This…” He makes a gesture with the hand that holds the box, expansive and intricate and a little bit ridiculous, encompassing the bed and John and himself and _everything_. “ _You_. I can never get past what you… I mean, seriously, do you even know what you look like?”

He knows what Rodney’s eyes look like, looking at him, and sometimes he thinks he will break from knowing, shatter just from feeling that gaze on him, if it lasts too long.

“Please,” he says, his voice small in his own ears.

Rodney shakes himself, almost visibly, and tosses the lube and the box onto the bed between John’s feet.

“Yesyesyes, no patience at all,” he chides, stepping away for a second to grab a thick throw pillow from the couch on the other side of the room. “Up,” he orders, tapping John’s flank, pushing the pillow beneath him when John raises his hips.

The feeling of exposure is instant and overwhelming, and John has to consciously remind himself to keep his legs apart, to remain open, on display. Until Rodney’s hand falls on the inside of his thigh, and suddenly all he wants is to open _more_. To be opened.

“Yes,” Rodney says, “that’s it. Let me see how much you want it.”

His fingers stroke up John’s leg, all the way up between his parted buttocks to rub at his opening. The touch is firm and deliberate, filled with the easy familiarity of ownership. John couldn’t hide his need for it if he wanted to.

He arcs into it, pushes towards it, groaning when the restraints keep him from getting more than Rodney will give.

Rodney rolls his eyes, a gesture John feels rather than sees, and pats his ass.

“Don’t rush,” he says. “We’ll get there.”

John curses under his breath.

He can take it, though, he can, because it seems they’ll get there soon. At least Rodney is settling in between his legs, taking his shoes off to kneel on the mattress, pushing John’s knees just a little further apart. John spreads himself willingly.

There is a ripping sound John identifies as Rodney opening the cardboard box, and, oh, of course, he must have lifted it from the infirmary, because what he takes out is a single surgical glove, the latex closing tight around the fingers of his right hand as he pulls it on, snapping rubber-band sharp against the skin of his wrist. It shouldn’t be hot, something so clinical, but it makes John’s mouth water; the intent behind it, the premeditation. Rodney has planned for this, Rodney will make this happen.

“Less friction this way,” Rodney says, squirting lube into his gloved palm, spreading it over his fingers. “No worrying about where my nails end up. Trust me, you’re going to thank me for those things.”

Slick, slick fingertips stroking up and down his cleft, teasing him, and then, oh then, Rodney’s fingers pushing inside. Two of them, and it’s just enough of a stretch, just enough of a burn, and he presses down on them, pulls them deeper. He’s making noises, raw, hungry noises from deep in his chest, but he’s beyond caring. All he cares about is Rodney, fucking his ass with his fingers, slow and thorough and perfect, opening him up, spreading more lube inside him with every inward slide, brushing over his prostate again and again and again. He barely feels it when more fingers are added, merely takes them, accepts them, letting Rodney widen and fill him any way he sees fit.

All four of Rodney’s fingers is a stretch, but it isn’t difficult. He’s taken Rodney’s cock with a lot less preparation than this, the thick, solid length of it shoving him open after only the briefest preparation. This is easy, by comparison, this smooth, slick glide inside him, almost too comfortable. Except that then there is a fifth digit, the broad shape of Rodney’s thumb, and suddenly it isn’t easy at all. Suddenly Rodney’s fingertips within him are the pointed end of a widening cone, flaring out towards his knuckles, and every inward press means opening more, forcing himself just a little bit wider, and he knows how wide Rodney’s hand is over the knuckles, how thick the base of his thumb is, and there is no way he can do this, no way he can open up enough to…

“Sssh,” Rodney says. “Easy. You’re doing so well, John, you’re being, really, seriously, such a good boy.” His free hand comes up to fondle John’s balls, gently kneading them between fingers slippery with lube. For a second, the warm intensity of it whites out the pressure in John’s ass. “You’re almost there, John, almost there. Think how good it will feel once I’m all the way in, how full you will be, how open and complete. How completely mine. You’re going to love it, John.”

Rodney’s left hand moves, lets go of his balls and…God, oh God…closes around his cock, squeezes the shaft of it, and he’s been hard for so long - every minute of this day, it seems - aching for Rodney to touch him, to take him, and the brightness of Rodney holding him shoots through every muscle in his body and he throws his head back and howls with it, the stretch of Rodney’s fingers inside him the perfect, searing counterpoint and he wants, God, he wants, and…

There is a shift, a slide, a savage burn, and it’s there, actually there, Rodney’s hand all the way inside him.

“ _John_ ,” Rodney breathes. “God, _John_. This is, this, this is just…. _Wow_. Are you okay?”

He sounds awed, almost frightened.

For a second, it feels as though every organ in John’s body is realigning, his anatomy re-moulding itself around the massive shape of this new thing inside him, and there isn’t room for him to breathe, no space in which to form words.

It passes, though, it passes before he can process it, and there’s simply Rodney, filling him, his hand curled into a fist from the pressure of John’s inner muscles, John’s hole closed tight around his wrist. Nothing could have prepared him for this, for the huge, living fullness of it, the sense of being filled beyond the point of bursting, beyond every conceivable limit. It feels… Fucking Christ, it feels…

“ _John_ ,” Rodney says again, and this time his voice is stronger, demanding. “Talk to me.”

It feels so incredibly good.

“I’m… Fuck. I’m okay, Rodney, I’m fine, I’m…”

He bites his lip, closes his eyes, tries to swallow down the intensity of it. Tries to ride it, channel it into something he can handle, something he can run with. It’s too much, though, too large, impossible to grip, overwhelming sensation pushing him out of his skin from deep within, clawing at him from the inside out with nowhere to go. He isn’t even hard anymore, nowhere near coming, his cock gone limp the moment Rodney slid into him, as if irrelevant by comparison, but he’s never been more aroused, never had pleasure coiled so tight in every nerve and vein, and he needs release so badly he can taste iron bright in the back of his throat. Too much, all of it, and he can’t take having this feeling, this perfect feeling inside him, can’t contain it without tearing into pieces, but he has no way of letting it out, no direction for it to go and he can’t breathe, can’t think, his heart pounding so loud in his ears, and he can’t lie here like this, can’t be still like this, can’t…

“Rodney,” he pants, “Rodney, please.” He’s tearing at the ropes, thrashing in his bonds, but every movement only makes Rodney’s hand shift in his ass, bliss and hunger flaring hot and unbearable in places he never knew existed. “Please, you have to… I can’t… Touch me, you’ve got to make me… Do something, please just _do_ something!”

He can’t remember when Rodney’s hand let go of his cock, but he doesn’t reach for it again now. Instead he bypasses it to stroke slow circles with his palm on John’s stomach.

“Breathe, John,” he says, “you have to breathe and you have to calm down. I can’t help you if you don’t calm down, and I want to help you, I’m here to help you. Panic isn’t the way to go. Trust me, I know enough about panic for a whole third Ph.D. Me and panic, we’re like this, I’m the guy panic cheated off in high school algebra, and I’m saying, you really need not to panic. You need not to panic, and you need to breathe. Do you hear me, John? Breathe.”

He can do that, he can breathe, if Rodney tells him to, it’s something he can do.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, forces himself not to push or pull, every muscle in his body quivering with the need for something to happen, suspended between Rodney’s ropes around his wrists, Rodney’s fist inside him. He’s never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, more desperate for control. But Rodney has the controls, Rodney will take care of him, Rodney had damn well better…

“Good,” Rodney says. “That’s good. You’re doing good. Just keep breathing.” His left hand remains on John’s belly, gently, firmly rubbing him, with and across and against the hairs in a steady pattern. His right hand stays still, carefully, excruciatingly still, an unyielding presence inside. And he keeps talking, words quick and unhesitating, conversational as if they were sitting at their table in the mess. “So this morning in the briefing room, you weren’t listening. I mean, obviously, you were distracted by daydreams of hot, kinky sex with me, which is perfectly understandable. Excusable, even. But you weren’t listening. Which means you probably have even less of a clue than usual what the research we discovered…”

He can’t. It’s too much and he’s breaking with it and he doesn’t know what the hell Rodney is on about, and he can’t, he just can’t.

“Rodney, for fuck’s sake!” he snaps. “This isn’t the time, this isn’t…”

“ _No_.” Rodney doesn’t yell, doesn’t move, but his voice is sharp as a whiplash. John feels his disapproval like a shock of ice-water through his veins. “No interruptions. _You’re_ not in charge here, John, in case you forgot, and you don’t get to interrupt. Either you use your safe word, or you _will_ listen. Understand?”

He nods quickly, eagerly, needing Rodney not to be disappointed almost as much as he needs release. He can’t take this, but he needs to be good, for Rodney. He needs to trust Rodney.

“Yes,” he manages to say. “I won’t… I know you’re in charge.”

Rodney smiles.

“Excellent. Right, then. Those quantum optics experiments at Harvard I mentioned, do you know what it is they do there? Oh, who do I think I’m talking to, of course you don’t. They stop light. They use Bose-Einstein condensates to convert light into matter and make it stand still. The Ancients had more efficient means of doing the same thing, more applications for the technology than you want to hear about, and that lab on M3J-073 is going to help us understand the process. All that speed, John, 299,792,458 meters per second, and we can make it settle into matter and stop, like putting it on pause. Well, a lot more complicated than hitting a pause button, obviously, but the analogy is sound, more or less. I get that you need to move, John, you need to fly, you need the world to flicker past at the speed of light so you won’t have to feel it. I get that, I do. But right now, I need you to be still, I need you to stop. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you, and struggling against that won’t do you any good. So I need you to be here and _feel_ this. Can you do that? Stop looking for a direction to run in and just let yourself pause. What’s the use of letting me inside you if you won’t stand still to enjoy it? Come on, John, you can do this. I know you can.”

Fuck, he should have known, he should bloody well have known.

”You…” His mouth has dried up with too much adrenaline - _fight or flight, nowhere to run_ \- and he needs a second try to get the words out. His voice sounds ragged, fraying at the edges. ”You can never ask for something easy, huh?”

Rodney gives a huffed breath of almost-laughter.

”I’d say that makes us even, Colonel. And you don’t want easy, you want this. You _want_ this, John. Just stop being such an idiot and take it already.”

John’s breath is coming in shallow pants, his body is trembling in ways he can’t control, and he’s so fucking scared, but somehow the familiar haughtiness in Rodney’s tone, the impatient, irritated, strangely affectionate arrogance, makes warmth spread in his chest, something that wants to be a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. And then, oh, _Christ_ , then Rodney moves inside him, just a shift of his fingers, and pleasure ripples through him, spreading outwards like rings on water, and he can’t hold back against it, he can’t get away. All he can do is let it take him. Let Rodney turn him into matter and keep him here, suspended in all these sensations.

“Rodney,” he says, and it’s prayer and plea, shivering with wonder, and Rodney strokes his hip and says,

“Yes, yes, that’s it, it’s okay.”

The fist inside him shifts again, not in and out, not fucking him, but opening and closing, expanding and contracting like the steady pumping of a beating heart. The sense of fullness increasing and receding, and it’s taking him apart, the unimaginable pressure, the pleasure deep and primal and coronosphere bright. Not building _towards_ anything - because he still isn’t hard, isn’t going to get hard, not from this - but rising and falling, pulsing within him, blinding and constant. There is no part of him that doesn’t belong to it.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts; time is something that happens elsewhere, not here, not where Rodney has taken him. He only knows the ropes that hold him, the hand that fills him and the words that fall over him, Rodney’s words of encouragement and praise and prickly tenderness. All of it enveloping him as he is stripped particle from particle down to the bone, until the only thing left of him is feeling.

He lets it happen. He could let it happen, just like this, for all eternity.

When at last Rodney wraps his left hand around the soft length of his cock, he barely remembers that this was something he wanted. It feels good, though, so good, the slow, gentle strokes of Rodney’s fingers, pulling him back into the breathing world, reshaping him, and his cock rises fast and eager into the touch, as if it’s been waiting for it. The urgency rushes back in, the savage _need_ , and if he was limp before, now he is, fucking Christ, so hard, harder than he can ever remember being, as if Rodney’s fist inside him is pushing more and more blood into his cock, more than he’d thought possible, until it’s sliding dark and thick in Rodney’s grip, swollen to the edge of pain, and John is moaning, panting, begging, trying to thrust up for more.

“God, yes,” Rodney says. “You should see yourself, John, what you look like, hard and leaking, with my fist up your ass. You have no idea…” His hand speeds up, pumping John’s cock faster, twisting on every down-stroke. Inside, the base of his thumb rubs up against John’s prostate, rough and demanding. “I want to see you come, John. I want to see you lose it, see you scream for me. You’ve been so good, and now you can come for me. Come on, John, come on.”

All it takes is a few more strokes, a twist inside, and he’s there, giving Rodney what he wants, shaking with it, the muscles in his ass clenching tight around Rodney’s fist as he arcs his back and comes and comes and comes, string after string of semen covering his chest while he strains against the rope and sobs Rodney’s name, long past the point where anything could have been held back.

His cock is still twitching when Rodney pulls his fist out, slow and careful, but God, it burns, being breached from the inside. His whole body spasms with it, one more flare of uncontrollable pleasure, and then it’s gone, he’s empty.

“Fuck,” Rodney says, “I can’t believe, I really can’t… I mean, clearly, yes, but, the way you _feel_ , John, _inside_ … God. I have to…” He’s stripping the glove off, dropping it off the side of the bed, and then he’s fumbling with his belt, his zipper. “Owowow. Ow, fuck. I have no feeling in my hand. Serious loss of blood flow, here. Do you have any idea how strong those internal muscles are? I might never regain full feeling in my fingertips. Pins and needles, _ow_ , and, seriously, I really, really need to fuck you now. I thought I’d come in my pants just from being in there, and, _God_ , John, I really need to be _in_ there, right now.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, “please.” Because he’s empty and wide open and it feels as though his body is trying to pull itself together from the corners of endless space, and the idea of Rodney’s cock where his hand has just been… “I want you to. Please, Rodney.”

“Yesyesyes, hang on,” Rodney says, but he’s already got his pants shoved down, his cock out, and then he’s leaning over John, face to face, hand braced on the mattress, and he’s sliding in, easy, so easy, and John’s insides are raw, but he’s been stretched so wide, and it’s perfect, absolutely right.

He wraps his legs around Rodney, heels against his bare ass, and drags him in the last bit of the way.

“ _Christ_ ,” Rodney moans, and John can feel it, Rodney’s breath against his cheek, and he strains upwards, asking for Rodney’s mouth. Rodney’s hand cups his face, thumb trailing over his lips, and John licks at it. It tastes of latex and of Rodney’s skin, and John shivers, _purrs_ , at the thought of where it’s just been. “God,” Rodney says, “you are _so_ …”

For long, silent seconds, before he bends to kiss him, before he moves to fuck him, John sees that look in Rodney’s eyes.

He thinks, maybe, he doesn’t need to look away.


End file.
